Success!

Coincidentally, the date of my last blog post was also the first day of my last period (or the start of my pregnancy count-down).  I apologize to anyone who gets squeemish at the word 'period'.  I'd hate to offend you by conjuring up graphic images of my bleeding vagina.

So, back to the good stuff.  I'm pregnant!

Are you back from celebrating? Drink something heavily alcoholic while you read this. For me. Please.

I've been waiting for something monumental to happen in my life in order to kickstart the ole sarcastic, creative juices! It was either this or murder Josh and give you funny clues in order to find his body.

Because I know this blog post, and many future posts, are going to be FULL of inappropriate shenanigans, I feel the need for a disclaimer:

Pregnancy is a beautiful thing. I feel extremely lucky to be able to go through this process and think everyday about the health and well-being of our baby. Josh and I couldn't be more excited to bring a life into this world and realize the weight of this amazing responsibility. I know that this can be a heavy and emotional topic - and I think about this a lot.  Life seems (and is) so fragile when you're waiting for your pregnancy to progress. I have spent many a night worried about losing this little life. I'm sure the worry is in preparation for the worry I will now experience for the rest of my life as a parent. So, I just want to put it out there that if you are easily hurt or offended by pregnancy-related jokes, it might be better if you didn't read this.  If you think women should go through their pregnancies with grace and without complaining, you DEFINITELY shouldn't read this. Cool. Back to it!

Holy shit. There's a human being growing inside of my body. INSIDE OF MY BODY.  And man, I feel like shit.  Like a naive moron, I imagined pregnancy as this time where I would gloriously fluctuate between feeling spiritual and gluttonous - doing prenatal yoga and drinking wheat-grass and craving kale for every meal.  Nope!  First of all, I've lost weight because everything sounds fucking DISGUSTING and I usually yack up at least one meal a day right after I eat it. Cravings?!  Fuck. The only things I can eat consistently are watermelon, plain toast, and Chick-fil-A.  Yes, you heard that right. I have compromised my morals for this kid already.  One day, after not eating for well over 24-hours and feeling like death, this bigoted chicken popped in my head and literally sounded like the only thing appetizing to me.  So, I sheepishly drove through the Chick-fil-A drivethru with my equal rights sticker on the back of my car.  I feel fucking bad about it, OK?!  Pregnant Georgia is not the same Georgia that we all used to know and love.

The new, pregnant Georgia (and her body) looks something like this:
-Josh was trying to calm down one of my many tantrums with a sweet hug and I started screaming, "I'm a wild stallion! I can't be tamed!"
-I can now put 'puking so hard I pissed my pants' on my Life-Achievements list.
-If you're wondering about my bowel movements, they usually fall somewhere between feeling like pooping my pants and never pooping again for the rest of my life.
-I worry that my kid might turn out to be a serial killer because of all the Criminal Minds and Law and Order I watch.
-Josh was trying to calm down another one of my many tantrums when I yelled, "I have Restless Leg Syndrome coursing through my veins!!"
-My nipples have taken on a life of their own. Maybe I just never really looked at them, but holy shit! It's like my nipples have nipples.
-People have started asking me, "Do you have any inkling about gender?! Are you dreaming that it's a girl or a boy?!" Usually I just smile politely and reply, "Not sure!" But what I want to tell them is that most of my dreams these days are either full of kinky sex or about me sneaking behind our house to smoke cigarettes and drink vodka.
-Did you know when you have a kid, you have to name the fucking thing?! Shit is hard. Josh is not jiving with my hippie names and usually this wouldn't be a big deal, but on certain days I find myself thinking homicidal thoughts about him. ("Hey fucker! You can't veto River if you're dead!") I realize this is the second reference in this post to murdering my husband ... I love you Josh! I promise I won't murder you!
-I get heartburn after I eat granola bars. FUCKING GRANOLA BARS.
-During the first visit with our midwife, she was doing a vaginal exam and asked me some question about our house or some shit. I looked over to Josh and he answered.  She kind of giggled and asked why I looked to Josh. I responded, "Well, it's hard to answer when your hand is in my vagina." She laughed. I like her.  (She has pictures of hot models above her examination table. Hilarious!)
-My butthole hurts. Not like, "Oh shit! It's 8:30 and I'm late for work, last night was crraaazzzyyy!" hurts. More like, "I think my poop is made of shards of glass." hurts.



I know what you're all thinking.  All this sickness and craziness is worth it, because I am bringing a gorgeous, fucking genius into the world. And you're right. It's like I'm sacrificing my happiness and body for YOUR benefit. Lucky fuckers.

I guess we're pretty lucky too. :)

Cheers!

Thinking About Procreating

Well, the title says it all.  Josh and I have been conversing about whether we should start trying to have a baby.  Our discussions consist of adult things like, "Is our financial situation stable enough to support THREE of us? ... especially considering one of us won't be fucking contributing at all?!  Lazy fuck." Or, "What if we can't get pregnant? I kinda feel like a few slipped/swam in there back in my ho days with anti-climactic results."  Pun intended.

Thinking about having a kid is also exciting.  Even though Josh has already forbid me from using our child as a sounding-board for my humor, I still fantasize about dressing it in onesies with cute little sayings like, "My brain is the size of a walnut and even I know Mitt Romney is a fucking sleezebag."  And let's just be honest. I am SUPER excited to pull my tit out in public and tell anyone who complains about it to go fuck themselves (I could do this now, but I might not have as much clout).

I gotta tell you, though. Even thinking about having kids has resulted in some serious mind-fucking. Some nights I lie in bed for HOURS thinking, "Sure, shitting is perfectly natural. I still don't want to do it in front of a room full of people!"  I also spend a lot of time thinking about the gender of possible future child.  To take from an epic Louis CK stand-up, I'm a little nervous to have a girl because I don't know how I feel about spending my days cleaning shit out of a tiny vagina.  Conversely, I'm not exactly stoked about frequenting the phrase, "Make sure you pull your skin back to wash your penis!".  Also, I don't know very many people who think, "Man, my fucking parents were perfect! They did everything right! I am so healthy and well-adjusted!"  So, I'm trying to come to terms with having this little person that will swell my heart (and vagina) to unimagined size, who thinks I'm a total neurotic, foul-mouthed, weirdo.  I've also had several sleepless nights over thoughts of quitting sushi and trampoline-jumping.

If we are able and fortunate enough to get pregnant, I feel nervous about the world I'm bringing a child into.  A world where people put cheese all over their vegetables and wear socks with sandals.  But let's just be real. I think we can all agree that I should procreate. The world needs more toddlers who call their teachers "fucking boners" in preschool and get their mom into trouble.

Penis Envy.

The other night Josh and I were lying in bed.  Naturally, I was thinking about penises and exclaimed, "Man, if I had a dick!"

I followed this up by chatting about all the things I would do if I had a penis: Play with myself, pee outside, slap people with it (willing participants), etc.  Josh is used to this type of talk, so he just patiently waited for me to exhaust the subject.  When he was sure I was finished, he said, .... wait for it .....

"If you had a dick, it'd be really small."

Initially, I found this hilarious. We both laughed. But then I had this terrible urge to defend myself - to say insecurely, in a small voice, "Do you really think I'd have a small dick??" or, "Size doesn't matter!!"

This really got me thinking about male penis insecurities.  If a dickless female can feel insecure about her pretend penis, surely men are sitting around measuring their worth based on the size of their ding-a-ling.

I know a lot of men read this blog, sitting on the edge of their seats waiting for me to reassure them about their penises .... No, but really.  There is a lot of shit about your dicks that make women jealous - this woman, at least!

Here goes:

• Your penis is mysterious, with its wrinkly ability to go from looking cute to looking terrifying in merely 4 seconds.
• You can wave it around and make it flop in circles just by gyrating! The closest us vagina-havers get to that shit is when we have tassels on our nipples!
• You can easily pee on your partner in the shower.  When we try to do that, we inevitably end of peeing all over ourselves instead.
• You get to put it in stuff! Your hand, an anus, a vagina, a bowl of warm pudding ... the possibilities are endless!!
• When you get excited, you shoot stuff out of it. That's just awesome.
• If you wanted to jerk off in the bathroom of Arby's, it wouldn't be a huge ordeal.
• You could dress your boner up like a bird and it would look like you're riding it! 
• You can piss outside without the fearful troll-squat-shimmy we have to do when the puddle starts to run frighteningly close to our shoes. 
• When you wipe your ass, you don't give a shit what direction you do it in. 
• You can sit on your hand until it's numb and then pretend a stranger is jerking you off.  
• You can rest, hang, place, balance, etc. things on your boner! It's even better when it happens accidentally (dropping a towel in an attempt to look sexy, but it gets caught on your boner. Classic!).

In conclusion, if you're into chicks**, most of them don't care about your penis size.  Seriously. Do you have nimble fingers? Can you lick the shit out of a popsicle? You're good. 

**I cannot speak for dudes.

Moving: Making Friends is Hard

Moving to California has been crazy.  Josh has Air Force responsibilities or work at the hospital almost everyday so I don't think he's quite as desperate for attention as I am.  Humping his leg as soon as he walks in the door has got me feeling like a poodle, and poodles are fucking annoying (RIP Louise).

Making friends is hard.  Without a job or activities where do you look?!

• Our gay neighbor only looks at Josh when we talk to him.  
• The lady downstairs asked if I wanted to buy a feral kitten that had just been birthed in her old Mercedes because she forgot to roll the window up.  When I said no she asked if I wanted to buy her teenage son.  
• There's a pack of preteens that hangs around the apartment complex I could try and befriend, but I think I blew my chance when they showed me a pill bottle and used condom on the sidewalk and I said, "Well, don't touch it!" <- Fucking lame old lady!  
• A guy asked me if I wanted to be his friend at the gym the other day.  By guy I mean 8 year-old kid.  But it still felt good - in a totally appropriate way. 
• There are some B's who tan by the apartment pool everyday but one of them has a grammatically incorrect tattoo (I'm not fucking joking.  It says: Never Make Someone A Priority If They Only Make You A Option). Sigh 
• I could try church but I don't want to burn any buildings down with my presence
• Josh and I tried to play pick-up on base yesterday.  There were a lot of people, but luckily we got on the first game.  We lost, however, and in the process I got a gnarly scratch by the 70-year-old Asian man I was guarding.  Josh then got picked up to run the next couple games and I sat on the bleachers, watching longingly, and listening to all the guys say shit like, "Damn! Look at Steve Kerr out there ballin' fools up!"  I left friendless.
• I tried to google 'How to make friends' (Yes, I actually did this. No, I don't feel like a loser, but thanks for thinking that, dickhole!). Once I farmed through all the shit written for CHILDREN, the only things I could find were "Cousins can be a good resource!" <- What the fuck?! That sounds inappropriate. Plus, most of my cousins live in Colorado, where I just moved from, but thanks for the worthless advice.  Or, "Take any and all invitations." <- Besides having a new feral kitten, this shitty advice gets me nothing.  It also assumes people have invited me to do shit. When they haven't it just leaves me feeling like even more of a loser than I did when I googled 'How to make friends'.

In conclusion, I think I'm just gonna wear a low-cut shirt and hang out around the local community college hoping someone needs an adult to buy them booze. 

Moving: Thrift Stores

I haven't posted in a grip.  Mostly this is because I was too busy driving around the Pacific northwest getting high, drinking, and winning foosball tournaments.

**If you're creeping around my blog because I applied for a job at your company, that last statement is false - I didn't win one fucking foosball game the whole road trip.

In other news, I just moved to California.  It's been good.  My husband and I have spent about half of our lives these last couple weeks at thrift stores. Thrift stores are fucking wacky, man.

(Yes, they are also awesome.  They provide some cool shit at reasonable prices.  But they are mostly weird.)  

• I like finding cool old dressers - I don't like making Josh lift them up so I can do a urine smell test.  
• I could do without the various assortment of old, creepy-ass baby dolls.  Their vacant stares wigged me out when I was a kid and they wig me out now. 
• I don't like asking myself if I'm being judgmental when I walk by the undergarments rack.
• I'm not a huge fan of walking by the pet supplies section and seeing what looks like carcasses left in the cages. 
• The demon eyes I get when I look at something that's already "been claimed" by the guy with the tight sweats creeps me the fuck out. 
• It kind of weirds me out when Josh and I are accosted in the parking lot by a guy who asks if we know about his new promotion.  Like at work?? No, but congrats! Oh, not your promotion at work but your promotion on stungun-flashlight combos?!  Sure we'd like a demonstration!  What the fuuuuuuck.
• Jesus is unofficially the thrift store mascot.  He is everywhere. And no, I don't mean that he's "everywhere" like all up in our souls and shit - I mean that he's over there, on the cross, pasted on a nice assortment of sea shells. 
• Do knick-knacks procreate? They better, or else it means that people actually fucking make and buy somber looking clay frogs and creepy-ass wooden bunnies.  
• I am cool with the lady in her PJs who always asks me if the pan she's looking at looks like a legit non-stick.

After purchasing a lot of cool shit at thrift stores I've now convinced myself that we have bedbugs.

The above being said, places like Pier 1 Imports can suck it.  No I don't want to buy a wine rack for $95! I can get one that smells like body odor at the thrift store for $0.75! Go fuck yourself you pretentious whore of a store.

Birthday Post

It's my birthday!!! My real birthday. Fuckin' A!!  I can be as inappropriate as I want and say whatever I want and no one can say shit about it!

Rick Santorum is a cocksucker!!!

That felt good.  

As a little tribute to myself, I thought I'd write about some memorable birthday pasts.

My Birth
An epic day, as the coolest fucking cat you know emerged from a vagina.

First Photo:

"Put me baaaaaccckkkkkkk!"

My 4th Birthday
My mom rented a lady dressed up like a freaky fucking penguin and I spent the whole time hiding.

Photo Evidence:

"Ahhhhh!! Get the fuck away from me you creepy bird lady!!"

My 9th Birthday
Sleepover. If I believed in God, I might pray that I don't have a female child solely because little girl sleepovers are like Lord of the fucking Flies on steroids. Anyway, at this particular party a friend was upset because her suitcase went missing.  None of the little girls would fess to it and my mom lined us all up and threatened to call the cops if one of us didn't tell the truth. The girl called later to say that she had left her suitcase at home.  This didn't repair the psychological damage of my mom's prison threats.

My 16th Birthday
I was pooping in the high school bathroom and some girls came in.  They heard me and started whispering back and forth, "Oh my God!" - "Who is that?!" - "I don't know, but gross!!" - "I think it's Georgia Angelo!"
They waited outside the bathroom to confirm. Fucking happy birthday to me.

My 17th Birthday
Bonfire party in Lyons.  I'm pretty sure somewhere out there exists footage of me running through a bonfire with forties taped to my hands.

My 21st Birthday
I got so drunk for so many consecutive days that I got pneumonia. But I also hooked up with my husband in the same week, so I'd chalk that up as a W!

My 22nd Birthday
I threw a birthday party.  My brother took it over, making it a mullet-cutting party.

Photo Evidence:

Kentucky Waterfall

My 24th Birthday
Again, really drunk. But this time I was at The Lazy Dog and encountered an old, homeless black man who I overheard tell the bartender, "Man, all I want tonight is to dance with a white girl."  Needless to say, I spent my 24th birthday hammered, dancing with him.

Photo Evidence: 

Only people on the dancefloor. 

Everyone else was too intimidated.

In, conclusion. Happy Leap Day. Go buy me a fucking present. I'm gonna go eat a cupcake.

Back with the 'Rents

Oh shit!  I haven't posted in about a month!  People are basically knocking down my door, pleading for more .... but man, my funny has been sucked dry from living with my parents and being unemployed.

I'm going to go this whole post without saying penis.  Starting .... PENIS .... now.

In case you didn't start paying attention until now, I'm currently living with my parents.  My husband is at Air Force Officer Training until the end of April and I didn't want to live in our shit hole apartment by myself, so I moved home.

Anyone who knows my parents knows that they are fucking rad.  They've always given me freedom and support.  And because I will be moving to California in the spring, it's really wonderful to get to spend time with them before I go.  I love them.

That being said, I'm edging closer to 30, so living with my parents is also really fucking weird.  You know, you grow up and think to yourself, "Next time I go home I'm going to ___________."  Then you go home and you're right back in the role you had when you were 8.  That's just how families are.  It's cool.  I pop my fingers like every 24 seconds, but I'm coming to terms with it.

Here's a short list of things that are weird when you move home to live with your parents as an adult - or at least the weird shit I have been dealing with. Something tells me other people might not have the same experiences .... :

• You are no longer just a social worker, serving additionally as an IT Specialist, Stylist, Detective, Physical Therapist, Dermatologist (rash-checker), etc.
• You come down to pee at 1am and your dad may or may not be on the couch watching soft-core porn.
• About every five minutes your mom asks, "Where is my waterbottle?!?"
• You feel even guiltier masturbating now than you did when you were 14.
• Your parents come into your room in the morning and say things like, "It's 10 o'clock."
• The drawers you used to keep your art supplies in as a child are now full of marijuana.
• Death is a popular topic.  As in, "When I die I don't want any of that long-funeral-service-shit. I want you to put my body on the dining room table and people can just come into the fucking house and say goodbye."
• Your little brother went on a spiritual journey in South America and when he came home, he lived in the room you're now staying in.  You keep knocking dried weeds off the walls and disrupting strategically placed ornaments.  You think you might be fucking cursed. 
• Your dad says things to you like, "Man, if your brother had your legs he'd be a beast!" 

The funniest part of this whole experience is that when I googled, "moving back home as an adult" to get inspiration for this blog post, all that came up was a bunch of shit like, "Don't let your adult children moving home derail your goals!"

As if my mom doesn't like picking up after me. Puh-lease.

It's Hard Being a Wiener - Pun Intended

This blog is going to be about male equality.  Yes, you heard me.  And yes, I'm already resisting the urge to say something snarky about penises - I think I might have a problem.

You might be asking yourself, "Whhhhyyyyyyyyyyy?!?!"  I'll tell you why.  It's cause I got several uptight and/or serious responses to my last blog (all from men - imagine that) and the last thing I would want to do is offend anyone .....

But first ...

I just want to make something clear.  You don't have to read this blog.  For example, Nicholas Cage's face pisses me off and you don't see me going out and fucking renting National Treasure VII.

Also, it's not supposed to be real intellectual (if you haven't noticed).  You don't have to follow any of the advice or believe any of the opinions I lay forth in this literary masterpiece.  For example, you don't see me forbidding myself to eat shellfish 'cause I read it in The Bible (think about it .... zing!).

I admit. It's hard for me to feel empathy towards men - well, ok, let me be more specific: White, affluent, heterosexual, God-fearing men.  It's like when a naturally skinny chick is upset because she's having a hard time gaining weight (totally uncalled for, I know).  I realize society demands a lot of things from you penis-havers, and it gets you all fucking uptight whenever someone points out how easy life must be for you. So, in an attempt to empathize, here goes ...

Things That Are Unfair For Men

• If you have long nails people think you're a crack addict.
• You don't have breasts and breasts are the best.
• You have to shave your face. Listen, I know what it's like trying to shave something sensitive with lips, and that shit sucks. I feel for ya.
• The future of your children rests in a thin sack that hangs vulnerably from between your legs (shittiest design ever).
• Somewhere along the way, someone gave a good number of you the message that yelling profane things at women would get you laid.  (Just an fyi, cat calling has a success rate of zero percent.)
• Some of you have had to cut off your dick skin.  Ahhhhh!!  Warning: Rant coming -> There's no reason for this.  It's not more sanitary and it does not decrease your risk of penile cancer.  Basically it's esthetic.  People legitimize it by saying, "Well a son should look like his father!" <-That's fucking weird. Or, "He'll get made fun of in the locker room!" <-Teach your kid to stand up for themselves, cause they might have big nipples and you can't cut that shit off. (You should feel lucky I only ranted on circumcision for one paragraph.  I could go all day on this shit.)
• There are no squads of scantily-clad male dancers at half-time games for you to join.
• You have probably had to deal with a public boner.  I'm turned on basically all the time, but unless I say so or a penis is getting ready to enter my vagina, no one knows it! 
• People slap your ass as a congratulatory gesture.  There's only one situation in which I enjoy getting my ass slapped and it's not during an office fantasy football party.

I'm sure I'm leaving one or two things off that list ...

Either way, here's to hoping I get more dudes to follow this blog. 

Douchebag

Douchebag.

Man, the inner-turmoil I have. The raging, liberal, feminist inside of me really doesn't want to use this word.  Then I run into the kind of guy who flexes in front of the weight room mirror in windbreaker pants that are just small enough I can see the outline of his penis and I just can't think of any word more appropriate. *Sigh

The Urban dictionary defines douchebag as: Someone who has surpassed the levels of jerk and asshole, however not yet reached fucker or motherfucker.  <- Um, awesome. Are you guys hiring?!

But the process of douching is controversial and, in my humble fucking opinion, stems from a male-dominated culture that thinks women need to be 'clean', always wear bras, say sorry for shit that's not their fault, make .75 for every dollar a penis-haver does, and shave their armpits.  Meanwhile, we got a bunch of fucking hairy dudes running around with bigger tits than me and they smell like shit! What the fuck?!

Here are some common douching scents:
-Fresh
-Island Splash
-Sweet Romance
-Country Flowers
-Tropical Rain

What the fuck?! Have you smelled a sweaty stick n' berries? 'Cause I have, and that shit certainly doesn't smell anything like a Caribbean fucking breeze. But you don't see me going around trying to jab a tube full of candle-smelling shit into any dick-holes.  A vagina is supposed to smell like, wait for it, a VAGINA.  This is some weird double-shitty-shit.  We got a tool to clean and scent a vagina that doesn't need either and we live in a weird culture where being compared to a vagina and its 'tool' is offensive.  So, I don't really want to use the word.

But wait! Have you ever had the pleasure of dancing at a club as a teenager and having some old dude try to rub his boner against you?! Douchebag. Or maybe you've gone to get a drink out of the water fountain only to find that the guy drinking before you hocked a giant fucking lugee into it and it's stuck in the drain - you would have avoided drinking after him, but you didn't hear him spit because all you could hear was Nelly blasting from his headphones. Douchebag.  Perhaps you're familiar with the guy who always asks you about Jesus at high school parties and then gets handjobs from two different girls in the same night (no I wasn't one of them, asshole). Douchebag! Or maybe, simply, you're living it! Example:

So you see my dilemma. I mean, to be fair I regularly use terms like jerk-off and dickhead in my shit-talking repertoire.  But men aren't discriminated against in the same way as women, so I take that back. And if you're the kind of penis-hole who's reading this thinking, "I bet she also thinks you can't be racist to white people." You're fucking right, so quit being a douche and log-off.

I don't know. This is tough. I talk A LOT of shit and sometimes you gotta pull out the big guns.  Just do me a favor and let me know when they invent a dick-washing system (no I don't mean masturbating in the shower) and I'll use that shit instead. Maybe.